


Death Wish (The Just This Once Remix)

by notyouranswer (gorgeouschaos)



Series: your secrets smell like blood [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 03, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeouschaos/pseuds/notyouranswer
Summary: Dean opens his mouth to tell Sam, I’m a walking dead man. Or maybe, You died, and I couldn’t live with that. Or maybe, I didn’t know how to let you go. Or maybe, You’re the one thing I’ve ever got right. Or maybe all of it. Maybe none of it.Sam looks up and sees Dean staring at him.“Too much whiskey in the eggnog?” Sam asks, and Dean forces a laugh, downs the rest of his cup in one go, swallows the truth with the booze.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: your secrets smell like blood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985683
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Death Wish (The Just This Once Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Just This Once](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27198557) by [notyouranswer (gorgeouschaos)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeouschaos/pseuds/notyouranswer). 



> Me: if there's interest in this 150 word ficlet I'll write more!  
> Me, like five seconds after posting: *is a page into this fic*
> 
> Warnings for suicide and a scene where Dean thinks Bobby is going to hit him. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, hope you like it, and I love hearing from y'all.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Dean lies, and Sam’s eyes are searching Dean’s face for a crack in his mask but Dean knows how to lie to Sam like no one else. Besides, Dean got rid of his last tell somewhere between Texas and Montana, somewhere between breaking his nose in a bar fight at sixteen and quitting smoking at twenty-six-- which Sam oughta know. 

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Sammy,” Dean repeats, and maybe if he says it enough it’ll be true.

He doesn’t know how to live without Sam. Never has, never will. And Dean knows if he wasn’t already going to Hell doing this to his brother would damn him, but...

Dean’s spent his whole life sacrificing. Just this once, he’s being selfish.

“Okay,” Sam says. “Okay, Dean.” 

Dean smiles; he knows, after all, that his soul is right here beside him. 

He’ll tell Sam eventually. 

Just not now. 

He can keep something for himself. 

Just this once. 

Then there’s demons and an underground war and it doesn’t really matter when Dean’s gonna die, he wakes up every day expecting it to be his last. 

Dean doesn’t tell Sam. Every time he starts to, Sam’s expectant eyes make him shut up before he can ruin things. 

Sam’s happy, more or less, for the first time since Dean dragged him back into the life. Dean isn’t selfish enough to ruin that. 

If Dean’s a little too eager to play bait, if he throws himself between danger and Sam a little too often, Sam doesn’t comment. 

So Dean keeps his mouth shut and starts to reconsider ever telling Sam. His decision is made on Christmas, when he suggests they celebrate and Sam actually goes out and finds a tree.

Dean opens his mouth to tell Sam, _I’m a walking dead man_ . Or maybe, _You died, and I couldn’t live with that._ Or maybe, _I didn’t know how to let you go_ . Or maybe, _You’re the one thing I’ve ever got right._ Or maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. 

Sam looks up and sees Dean staring at him.

“Too much whiskey in the eggnog?” Sam asks, and Dean forces a laugh, downs the rest of his cup in one go, swallows the truth with the booze.

Mystery Spot happens, and as Sam explains everything, all Dean can do is pray that a thousand versions of himself had enough sense not to make any deathbed confessions. 

“He told me I was going to lose you,” Sam says. “Said he was helping. You know what he was talking about?”

His tone is accusatory. Dean swallows and says, “No.”

“I think I do.”

Dean braces himself, feels the excuses and explanations rise like bile in the back of his throat.

“You’ve got a death wish, Dean,” Sam snarls, angry now, and it surprises Dean enough that all he does is stare. “It’s pretty obvious.”

Dean doesn’t know how to say that it’s not a death wish when you already know you’re dead. 

Sam leaves, disgusted; Dean takes a long shower and carefully does not think about how easy it would be to tell the truth.

Sam comes back. Dean carefully does not consider what he would have done if Sam hadn’t.

With two weeks left on Earth, Dean suggests they take a break from hunting and just… drive. Sam, although initially suspicious ( _where are you hurt, what happened, what are you hiding_ ) capitulates easily enough. 

_Death wish_ rings through Dean’s head like the beginning of _Highway to Hell_. He does his best to leave it behind as they head out of Missouri.

They start on the West Coast, visiting Jess’ grave and drinking a little too much in the process. They head north next, cruising through Oregon and Washington before heading for Bobby’s. 

Dean tries to hold onto every second, tries to take mental snapshots, even as the time slips through his grasp. 

(Sam, laughing with the window rolled down and his hair blowing around his face as he throws his head back.

Sam, eating a burger, sprawled on the Impala’s hood talking about the time he cheated a frat boy out of a hundred bucks. 

Sam, snoring in the passenger seat, Dean’s leather jacket balled between his head and the door. 

Sam.)

  
  


Bobby contrives an excuse to get Dean alone as soon as he and Sam walk through the door. Dean follows the closest thing to a father he has into the scrapyard and prepares for the incoming fist. 

Bobby sees the tension in Dean’s shoulders and sighs, slumping against a broken-down Ford. “I’m not gonna hit you, boy.”

“Wouldn’t blame you if you did take a swing,” Dean replies, and he means it. Lord knows he’d deserve it.

“I ain’t your daddy.” Bobby works his jaw like he’s started chewing tobacco again. “You know I never would.”

Dean shrugs. “So why are we out here?”

“You told Sam yet?”

“Nah.” Dean can’t hold Bobby’s stare. “And I ain’t gonna. He deserves better.” 

He can feel the drawl slipping out as he gets worked up and for once Dean doesn’t care about the obvious giveaway. 

Maybe that stretch between Texas and Montana, between sixteen and twenty-six, hadn’t burned every tell out of him after all.

“Dean,” Bobby breathes. “Damn it, boy, you really--” he cuts himself off. 

_Do you really have that low an opinion of yourself?_ Bobby asked the last time Dean had been here. 

It’s got nothing to do with Dean’s self-esteem. It’s got everything to do with Sam. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it’s always gonna be if Dean has anything to say about it. 

“This is gonna kill him,” Bobby winds up saying. “You know that, Dean? This is gonna kill him.”

“It better not,” Dean says. “Pretty sure the Winchesters only get one get-outta-jail-free card, and Dad already used it. So he better not die, ‘cause I’m flat out of souls to sell.”

Bobby’s mouth twists. “If you think he’s gonna survive losing you, you’re even more of a fool than I thought you were.”

It stings. Dean flashes the smile he’d learned a little too young and says, “He don’t got a choice.”

Bobby’s eyes are shining with something that looks suspiciously like tears. “What about me, Dean? Do I get a choice?”

Dean doesn’t even need to think about it. “Not when it comes to Sam.”

Bobby nods a few times, swipes a hand over his face. “Should’ve seen that one coming.”

He should’ve, so Dean says nothing. Bobby of all people knows how far Winchesters will go for family.

“Help me bring these books in,” Bobby says, his voice even gruffer than usual. “Else Sam’ll ask questions.”

Dean obeys. 

He’s got three days left on the clock and he’s got nowhere he’d rather be than here. 

With two hours left, Dean leaves Sam snoring on the guest bed, takes his handgun and a half-empty bottle of Jack, and starts walking. 

He leaves his amulet. He doesn’t leave a note. 

What could he say? _Sorry for never learning how to walk away? Sorry for failing the one job I had? Sorry but I’d do it again in a heartbeat? Sorry but I’m not asking for forgiveness?_

_Sorry that the one thing I ever did for myself was hurt you?_

Bobby will tell Sam. He’s always been better at words than Dean. 

Besides, the amulet will tell Sam everything. 

Dean considers taking the Impala. He runs a hand over her silhouette and thinks, selfishly, childishly, _I don’t want to die alone._

But then Dean pictures Sam finding his brains splattered across the driver’s side window, pictures Sam trying to drive with Dean’s blood soaked into the upholstery, pictures Sam--

Dean takes a long swallow of whiskey and keeps walking. 

He can hear the baying of hounds in the distance.

He finds a crossroads with twenty minutes left. Dean sits down in the dirt to wait, finishes off the bottle at the five minute mark. The hellhounds are closer now. 

At the one minute mark, Dean sees the head of the pack barreling towards him and knows that it’s time.

“Bye, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. 

He raises the gun to his temple and fires. 

(Alastair asks him, once, if the deal had been worth it.

“Does it matter?” Dean manages to respond.

“No,” Alastair says. The demon goes back to humming Metallica.

Dean goes back to screaming his brother’s name. 

He knows it’s a tell. But that stretch between Texas and Montana, between sixteen and twenty-six, hadn’t prepared him for this.

It had prepared him to lie to his brother’s face for 365 days, though. 

It had done enough.)

**Author's Note:**

> Next fic in the series will be Sam after Dean goes to Hell-- subscribe if you're interested!


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